


The Face in the Mirror

by cherryrayflo



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Gen, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, Stream of Consciousness, jack's a monster that hates himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 21:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6769921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryrayflo/pseuds/cherryrayflo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man cannot hide the truth from himself. When he looks himself in the eye, all his secrets come to light.</p><p>Even Atlas(Hyperion) can crumble under the weight of his sins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Face in the Mirror

The mirror shows him what he doesn’t wish to see. It reminds him of the past, in fleeting glimpses that don’t always line up just right.

 

The mirror doesn’t let him run from the monster he’s become.

 

_“Handsome” Jack._ That’s what he calls himself these days, at least. He likes to believe that the more he says it, the more he hears it, the more he’ll believe it. And sometimes he can pretend that he really is handsome, that there’s no imperfections on or in him whatsoever.

 

He’s still working on that lie.

 

But when the mask comes off, when he’s standing alone in his room at night and the bravado of playing mastermind comes bearing down on him, that’s when the truth worms its way to the surface. That’s when he can’t hide anymore. When the mask comes off, the legend crumbles and he’s left just a man too scared to face his demons.

 

The eyes looking back at him feel judgmental. _Foolishness_ , he thinks bitterly. _Why would I put myself down? I am, after all, perfect in every way._

 

The expression in the mirror is most definitely unimpressed.

 

After all, that scar says otherwise.

 

He’s touching the burn-smoothed flesh before he realizes it. It hurts, oh god does it hurt and he knows that pain will never subside. The mask makes it easy to conceal, but here, at home, it hurts too much to hide.

 

His weakness glows in the shadows creeping in around his vision and he hates it.

 

Even in the daylight the faint blue glow of the eridium scar shines far too brightly.

 

Most people don’t know he has it. He does, after all, always wear a mask for them. They must never see weakness. A weak man can’t change the world, everyone knows that.

 

But damn if Jack isn’t trying.

 

Some days the pain is immobilizing. Jack won’t leave his office then. Rhys will assist with his errands without complaint but the look in his eyes means he knows. He knows the weight of consequence and Jack wants to tell him not to follow in his path, he may have fucked up but the kid can have a future.

 

He never says a word though.

 

He knows he should let Rhys go, let him and those friends of his that care so much just go and be free of him, but the power in his hands and the fear of being alone are damning at best. So he just stays silent. He brings the kid down with him because he doesn’t want to burn alone.

 

_He’s a good kid_ , Jack thinks. Shame it’s going to be the death of him.

 

Jack tries not to think about Angel anymore. But when he’s drowning in liquor her face always comes barreling to the forefront of his mind. No matter how much he tries to ignore it, no matter how much he begs to forget, her voice always haunts him. _I love you, dad,_ she says, and then nothing he can do can stop the rage and the hurt and the disappointment in himself from showing. He always ends up breaking something before he’s puddled on the floor, sobbing for her.

 

He knows her death is on him, and it’s a suffocating weight, a noose tied tight against his throat waiting on him to trip off the ledge.

 

Some days he just considers jumping.

 

He can’t even remember Angel’s mother, not really anyways. He remembers a smile that eased his pain, and a laugh that made even the bullshit at Hyperion worth it so long as he could provide her with everything she deserved and more. Jack wishes he could remember her eyes more than anything, but time and anger has blurred his memories and nothing he does makes him remember. He loved her, and she had loved him, and all the bad things in his life seemed so trivial next to her steadying touch and gently whispered proclamations of love. The dull ache in his chest only barely registers as broken heartedness, but he knows it’s there.

 

Jack doesn’t think about his second wife nearly as much. All he remembers is her back as she walked away from him forever, and then the building burst of anger in his chest deflates as he reminds himself she’s not worth it.

 

Honestly, Jack can’t even remember her name.

 

Some nights when sleep completely evades him and he lies in bed staring up at the ceiling, he wonders if he could change now. Now that’s he’s drenched in the blood of thousands, if not millions of people, bandits and civilians and employees alike. Now that’s he ruined the lives of even more and left nothing but fear and hatred in his wake. 

 

_Of course not,_ he’ll think bitterly, acid bubbling up into his throat and hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. _I’ve chosen my path, and I’ve dug my grave. There’s nothing but rot left in my soul, changing isn’t an option anymore._ Jack will sigh heavily and roll onto his stomach to bury his face in his pillow, the tears soaking into the soft fabric against his face.

 

Jack doesn’t cry though. No matter what the tear stains on the pillow say.

 

He wonders often what his death will look like. _Whom_ his death will look like, he’ll remind himself. Despite how much he thinks he’d prefer a natural death, he’s no fool to think someone won’t get the one-up on him. The thought is often followed by the idle consideration of which Vault Hunter he’d prefer to be defeated by. (He knows it’ll be a Hunter. There’s no use imagining otherwise.) Sometimes he’ll wonder if he’ll have the aid of the Warrior at his hand when his death comes for him, but most of the time he just wonders what it’ll feel like.

 

He hopes it feels like peace. In the same breath, he decides he’d rather die at the blade of that weird assassin with the haiku obsession than any of the others. Jack hopes he’s lucky enough to have at least that dream go right.

 

He’s not holding his breath on it though.

 

Sometimes Jack wonders if things had been different, if his father hadn’t died, if his mother had loved him more, if he had never been left with that bitch that called herself his grandmother, he wonders if he’d have still turned out as this monster playing human. He likes to think not, but the nasty little voice crawling in the back of his mind whispers of **_fate_** , that no matter how good a person he started, he’d always wind up here. That even if he was loved, if his parents were there, his wife had lived, his daughter got the life she deserved instead of suffering for his pain, he’d still turn into this beast, feral and stained with blood that’ll never wash out, banging his head against cage walls and ripping out the throats of anyone that came too close.

 

That voice tends to shut up pretty quickly when Jack’s throwing back shots of unknown liquids that look more like poison than liquor.

 

Most nights he kind of wishes it was poison.

 

His wishes never come true (not that he’s ever really surprised) and he’s always woken by Rhys muttering irritatedly as he cleans up Jack’s mess. Jack’ll greet him with a pained smile and some foolish pet name, and Rhys will just sigh at him again, frustrated at being turned more into a housekeeper and babysitter than the PA his job description entails.

 

Rhys has started taking off for the rest those days, and Jack doesn’t even bother to be pissed about it anymore. 

 

Jack doesn’t want to deal with his shit anymore either.

 

Suddenly, a prickling sensation at the corners of his eyes snaps him back to reality, still staring disgustedly into the bathroom mirror as the night casts forth its shadows, blanketing the room in darkness, save for a soft blue glow in the vague outline of a mountain peak. Instinct has him reaching towards the light in the mirror before an unburied memory sends a searing stinging across his face and he’s reeling back, his hands flying up to his scar to press hard against it in the hopes of dulling the pain.

 

When the raging burn subsides to a dull ache, the face in the mirror is still there, staring back at him mockingly. 

 

So Jack puts his fist through the mirror.

 

But the face doesn’t leave, it’ll never leave, and Jack just sighs as he extracts the broken shards from his bloodied knuckles. The ache will be there in the morning, just as the blood and cracked glass will be, and the cycle will start anew.

 

Jack wishes the face in the mirror didn’t know so much.

 

His wishes never come true.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The ending of this is kinda abrupt, sorry. It's been in my drafts for a few months now and I couldn't come up with a better way to end it. Also, a couple things:
> 
> -This takes place before the ending of Borderlands 2. I know Rhys doesn't actually show til after the events of BL2, but I wanted a character in there that had first-hand interactions with Jack and his damning ways.
> 
> -This is meant to be written as stream of conscious, so basically it's just Jack's thoughts being broadcasted as third-person.
> 
> -Handsome Jack is one of my favorite characters of [literally] all-time, so I'm really hoping I did him justice.


End file.
